


it’s a mix and match of what’s real and isn’t

by yerimsus



Category: Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: JOY OF RED VELVET, Mental Illness, Other, Red Velvet, i like dark and sad stories, is this even sad or dark, joy, joy-centric, joycentric, ledeu belbet(eu), park sooyoung - Freeform, putting up too much tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 14:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10414533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yerimsus/pseuds/yerimsus
Summary: how do u know if hysteria is stepping on the boundary encasing reality?





	

almost.

joy hears the revving of the engines first before the vehicle comes into view, slowly expanding in length and width. the sound of something in risk of wearing and giving out almost deafens her as she stares at the scenery unfolding beyond the windows of her four-sided, almost normal and mundane, old room. the paint of which almost dilapidating in its very existence. as if the paint is gradually giving up — surrendering to corrosion as how joy feels (she finds herself trying to slough her skin off of her flesh every time she’s alone — as alone as she could manage — in her bath). the people behind look almost surreal for her to ever be able to scream at or touch. but joy knows no matter how deafening her shouts or how quiet her voice could be, her pleas will remain futile and silenced.

sometimes — most of the time, joy forgets she is also real. capable of feeling. with throbbing veins, a pumping heart, reflex actions, and the shooting impulses responsible for the pain that surges her every time she musters the courage to slice through the canvas of her skin using the corner of a sharp-edged tool, the blade slowly trying to seek its way to bury deeper into her body to get to the threads tying her together.

most of the time, she just wishes to be incapable of feeling.

she has always been curious of what life is like outside, behind the transparent, thin layer of barrier caging her inside her room.

a dull ache tugs at her heart. her fingertips weave its way to press upon the cool transparent glass set into the unbudging railings of the window. she wonders how she looks like with her right hand splayed upon the glass, neutral eyes keen and watchful, hair cut by the shoulders and swept off into her white turtleneck.

below her, a scene unfolds as a throng of people gathers beneath the copse of trees shading her eyes from the scorching heat radiating off the sun. the sunlight oscillates as the leaves of the trees sway side to side due to the gentle rush of the wind.

the people move in a somewhat languid way with a glass of lemonade held in one hand with evaporated drops of moisture silently trailing down the half-downed glass as the ice cubes of which make up for the lost liquid by melting. she guesses it must be summer starting. she can’t tell too well, having been locked up into her room for years.

joy wishes she could remember how it felt like being under the sun, the scorching heat penetrating deep into her skin. but she also wonders how much of their movements are real and how much are seen and copied from others. it’s a cycle, she thinks, every action that goes through is bound to provoke an equal response. she wonders how much of the actions is not as empty as it looks.

joy knows this lesson all too well. and as she expects to feel the hit of nostalgia, it’s just the dull ache that gnaws at her heart. and perhaps, she’s resigned herself to a lethargical silence suffused with a turmoil of emotions.

 

she feels as if she doesn’t belong. joy’s emotions come close to being always on edge, always on the teether of something. the prospect of falling fills her with dread — almost more than the idea of dying. these past few days, joy’s been noticing as if there’s a scar that throbs with every pulse etched into her heart, making her wince at her every intake of breath.

she doesn’t know how it got there, but it’s one reminder she’ll have a hard time ignoring. she’s still alive. she can still manage.

she isn’t a carcass. yet.

most of the time, dread blooms in her, assimilates in different wayward directions as colorful and as fresh as the flowers growing and sprouting under the waking sun. just after the day of the dead of the winter.

and until later, she won’t be able to talk. to eat. to drink. to breathe. she’ll be having another fit.

until later, she’ll be staring out beyond the hindrance in the form of her room, the transparent barrier panelled into the mute color of the wall. she’ll vaguely remember why and how she ended up here but her memories are muddled because she isn’t able to focus. all she is able to see are the mechanical movements, practiced and polished to perfection — she doesn’t need to know, but she wonders anyway. she wonders how much of it is hollow, automatic movements ingrained, taught at a very young age.

joy suddenly remembers why she’s here and then suddenly she doesn’t. faceless after faceless of people grapple at her, but she doesn’t move. she guesses. her eyes glassify in an attempt to escape, but she doesn’t. her grave mistake number one. the one she keeps on doing.

dizziness swarms her vision, pockmarked with bruises, emerging in the chromes of shocking blue, purple, and black like the bruises that can be found on overripe fruits, a type of fragility handled too carelessly. somewhere, a switch is being turned.

joy is vaguely aware of the sound, of the power turning on. light beams and focuses on her face. it blinds her momentarily, swimming through the tears obscuring her sight like specks of fireflies too close, close enough for inspection that the bleak colors of bruises on overripe fruits saturate through the flickering blankness of her vision. she feels weightless as if gravity has already taken ahold of her. a sea of faces nudges their heads down altogether as their hands grasp at whatever part of joy’s body is bare and traverse down an arid path of beige clothed in a white dress too thin for it to be able to fight off the coldness seeping in through the dry cracks of her skin.

the hands simultaneously press on various parts of her body, programmed to do whatever in accord to the brain’s senseless bidding. but she still feels weightless.

her breath almost hitches at the softest touch perpetuated by the familiar surface of the rough, elastic gloves worn by the people she’s surrendered to recognise as _someone_. 

it is a touch she’s come to ache for.

a tear slides down the side of her cheek and it almost feels like it’s raining.

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAHHHH i hope i was able to show another side of my writing through this work!! idk if this even turned out the i way i wanted it to since it’s a huge mess of run-on sentences (?) but i do hope you enjoyed it!! I FEEL SO NFNHMDMC


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